


Before June 20th

by HalfUnion



Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Short Film)
Genre: Before DHMIS 6, Other, and it's barely there anyways but, sketchbook is nb so none of the relationship tags work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfUnion/pseuds/HalfUnion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wonder what will happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before June 20th

**Author's Note:**

> I was greatly affected by DHMIS ending, so I wrote this to cope. I don't know how well it flows; I mostly write at 3 AM so I'm not the one you go to for life-changing, professional quality, but I did have fun.

There’s sunlight pouring through the faux glass of the kitchen window, and the whole world glows in the bright, simplistic colors of felt. It’s another perfect morning on another perfect June 19th for a nice breakfast and some light reading.

Or, it would be, if the house was not so empty, and the breakfasts not so unmade, and the books not so unread. The boy is too young to do these things, and he does not wish to learn, lest the music start up and his world start singing to him; lest he finally disappears, too. He’s running out of safe spaces—the dining room, the living room, and most recently the kitchen have all begun to harbor too many unpleasant memories. He hasn’t eaten more than a few stray fruits he found in a fridge that he’s now too afraid to open, and the outside world is too big and strange and uncertain for a small one like himself. His— _their_ bedroom is the only place left untouched. The boy has lost track of how many nights it’s been since Duck has left him, but so far they have all been silent.

The silence is almost worse than the cacophony that’s been following him for months. Though the boy’s nights are peaceful, they’re almost too quiet to bare. There are no game nights or shows to watch together huddled around the television. Red isn’t around to make food that doesn’t talk, and Duck isn’t there to answer his questions when he needs help. It’s just him, now. Not even Dad comes by anymore. Perhaps he’s been taken, too.

The boy now opts to stay in bed for the day. Nothing has happened here, yet. He pulls up the covers over his head and shuts his eyes. How long has he been alone? How long will it be until the next lesson strikes? Is it days, hours, minutes away?

He doesn’t dare glance at the clock down the hall to check.

—

The clock, for his part, has been curiously inert. The sketchbook supposes that they know why; timekeeping is a much more taxing job than drawing or painting or gluing is, and he needs to keep busy somehow. It isn’t like they’ve been doing much, either, besides watching and waiting. Indeed, they’ve spent the days since their lesson patiently waiting for something they can’t quite define. There’s a feeling somewhere within them that something is different. Machines, buttons, and wires clutter their thoughts. It’s something strange, something inevitable. It will happen, they keep thinking, rather inexplicably. It will happen.

That’s why they’re hoping the clock—Tony, a name they’ve never heard him say but are quite certain of—will reanimate himself soon. No one could know more about time than he, thinks Sketchbook. Sure, there’s that computer in the living room, who hasn’t left since he started singing about all of his wondrous technology, but Sketchbook much prefers watching the melodious ticking of an analog clock to any digital display. They wonder if he can tell when they’re watching him. Looking inanimate doesn’t equate to being inanimate, after all, or Sketchbook wouldn’t be sitting on a shelf thinking so hard about it now. Their yellow friend never seems to look at the clock anymore, so it’s unfortunate that they personally have no use for such constructs such as time. 

Tony does, of course, notice when Sketchbook turns their focus to him, even when they don’t have any apparent face on display. It’s one of the perks of being a timekeeper: it’s easy to tell when you’re being watched. He can’t wrap his mind around why they’re so intent on looking at him when the same day drones on over and over, however. Time is important to him, but he can’t imagine that they have much use for telling it, ruling out the most obvious explanation for their fixation. Still, with Yellow no longer casting his gaze upon the wall, Tony appreciates the attention.

He looks at them, too, after all. Sketchbook is much more active than he is, despite their lack of movement. Every so often there’s a new picture on one of their pages, which they usually leave open and visible once completed. This art of theirs is rather _cool_ , really. Downright splendid! There’s even a few drawings of clocks in there somewhere; Tony isn’t sure if Sketchbook drew them before or after he arrived, but either way, he quite likes them. He’d likely really enjoy with talking to the artist more if he didn’t have such an important duty to attend to. 

The clock wonders on this morning if there’s a reason he has to stay so aware of his inanimate status as he ticks away. He doesn’t really mind, but it can get rather dull. The sketchbook knows that there’s an answer to this question, but has yet to figure out what it is; and neither of them can talk to the other about it.

Not yet, anyways.

—

Colin is fully aware of the machine. It’s his job to know all about computers, and being a computer himself, he figures he’s doing excellently in that regard. From to moment he sprang to life to rather snazzy musical accompaniment, Colin has known exactly where he is and why. He is in Their House to teach those pesky three about technology, and the machine is the one that blessed him with the power to do so. 

Colin also knows that this world’s existence is fleeting. What else would it be, if not another digital world? That machine could malfunction at any point; he’s pretty sure it already has, actually. There wasn’t supposed to be so many of them in such a short span of time (which, he recalls, he tells much more accurately than that confounded analog nextdoor), and they were certainly not supposed to leave. This whole world was built to cater to the machine, and right now, it very much isn’t. He heard the phone ringing a few June 19ths ago. Poor saps over in the kitchen! It’s a shame that this little simulation is going to have to be reset soon, really. Gilbert’s not much for company, but Colin has decided that he much prefers existing to whatever happens when you don’t exist. He’s in a wonderful state of being both digital and real, and would like to keep it that way.

But Colin, clever boy that he is, knows that that can’t happen. The most he can hope for is that he gets summoned again after the reset, and that his next set of students aren’t so impudent.

—

Hours pass—Tony has it down to the millisecond by now—and the boy is still in bed, waiting for darkness to fall. He hasn’t opened his eyes and he likely isn’t going to. Little does he know it, but he’s no longer so alone. 

The lamp is, in a word, rather woozy. Not a second ago, he had no life or purpose beyond providing illumination. Now? Now he’s thinking and feeling, and it’s quite overwhelming, to be honest. Sentience is a new sensation. New, he thinks, but pretty decently okay.

There’s the itch, though. Every machine-summoned being has one. It’s what drives Sketchbook to create, Tony to keep things in line, and Colin to...be himself. The lamp’s itch is filling his young brain with facts and lessons and songs on dreams. “Dreams are successions of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur usually involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep.” Like a movie that lives in your head. There’s music here. He’s never heard music before, but he knows what it is immediately. It runs through his mind and muddles his thoughts. He needs to teach.

It’s hardly the right time of day to do that, though. The sun’s still shining, after all; and no one dreams when the sun is still up! That would be silly. He will wait. Excitement washes over him, bolstered by confidence. The lamp may be new, but he’s knowledgeable. What a joy tonight will be!

—

“Psst.”

The sun is hanging low in the sky now, dying the papercraft sky a vibrant orange. Sketchbook would take in the view, but there’s something stirring; something has changed. They’ve had this feeling--this feeling of things to come--for what seems like ages, and something about the coming night gives them a sense of finality.

“Friend,” they whisper across the room. Directly opposite their position, and a few feet upwards, the clock’s hands move forward another minute. They haven’t seen him move at all since the end of his lesson. Will he respond if they keep calling to him? They can’t say for sure, but it’s worth a shot.

“What time is it?” they ask, in the lowest voice they can muster. The hands move forward. In the other room, the boy’s soft, pathetic muttering can be heard. Still no reply. Silence permeates the space, just like always. Until:

“It’s half past eight.”

So he _can_ still talk! Joyous day!

“Thank you, friend,” Sketchbook replies with a smile. They’re always smiling—a benefit of being made out of paper and pencil drawings—but somehow, their expression conveys a bit more anyways. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Tony was not expecting a conversation. Truth be told, anyone could have asked him the time at any moment and he would have gladly responded. He isn’t averse to the idea of chitter-chatter, but timekeeping is crucial. Without him, what would they have? A computer? It’s not the same. He appreciates the thought, but he has work to do.

“There’s no time for that,” Tony says, forgetting to whisper. He hasn’t yet lost track of time and he isn’t going to start tonight.

“Whoa there, friend! Wait a second, now,” Sketchbook calls, shushing him. They hope their companion doesn’t take “second” literally, and continues. “Have you noticed anything different lately?”

“No,” Tony responds, quieter this time. “It’s eight thirty-two.”

“Really? Hmm...I can’t help but feel that something is going to happen,” Sketchbook utters airily. “Something creative, maybe. Something is different!”

Tony thinks for a moment, now intrigued. “It’s June 19th. It’s been summer for ages. You made a picture of some machine out of paper two days, fourteen hours, two minutes, and thirty-six seconds ago. That was different. Very neat!”

Sketchbook is flattered. “Do you think so, friend? I don’t know where I got the inspiration. That’s how creativity is, you know. But I think...I think it has something to do with the future. You know about the future, correct?”

Tony knows everything and nothing about the future. “The future doesn’t exist,” he says matter-of-factly. “But time keeps going, around and around! Things will inevitably repeat themselves.”

“Really, now?” Sketchbook asks. Something about Tony’s answer resonates with them. 

“Yes,” Tony states simply. “There is nothing spontaneous about time. Time is a cycle. That’s why it’s important! That’s why it keeps things from getting out of hand.”

“I see…” Sketchbook mumbles. “Thank you, friend. I suppose only time will tell, yes?”

“Indeed! Only time will tell!” Tony replies excitedly. He’s forgotten to whisper again. Sketchbook quickly shuts him down with a “Quiet, friend!”, and the two go back to their inanimate ways before the house’s final resident notices something amiss.

—

The sun has set, and the bright felt house has gone dark. The boy looks to his right, then to his left, at the empty beds where his friends—his family—should be. He wipes the tears from his eyes and flips through the pages of their photo album for what is certainly the hundredth time.

“Goodnight, guys,” he calls. He’s never been more aware of the emptiness that fills the hallways than tonight. “I miss you.”

He turns off his bedside lamp, covered in bright yellow stars that once made him feel so safe. Settling under the covers, the boy shuts his eyes once more and tries to rest.

Instead of a comforting darkness, there’s a flash of light, and a sudden rush of fear. 

No! He’s alone! He was finally feeling comfortable for once. He was safe here, it was his bedroom, no one could get in—

“OH! Somebody’s sleepy!”

And the final night begins.

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't end up like how I envisioned it to but I'm not dissatisfied. I have to write more Padlock, though. I missed out on the real fun two years ago.


End file.
